by Jeff Noon
Was he being looked at, examined? Nyquist could not tell; the other man’s features were too well veiled.
“Can I help you?”
The shadow did not respond. Nyquist took a step forward. The shadow waited. The darkness glowed around it like a negative full-body halo. Perhaps the man was wearing some kind of light-cancelling suit; Nyquist had heard of such fashions among the young, especially in Nocturna. But here, in the daylit side of the city? No. It was unheard of.
And still the shadow did not move.
“I don’t know what you’re playing at, but you’re starting to royally piss me off.”
Intimidation had no effect.
Nyquist moved back towards his parked car. There was a strange noise behind him, a dry crackling sound. He turned back.
“Where is she?” The shadow man’s voice was as grey and indistinct as his body and face; a hissing sound surrounded each word.
Nyquist narrowed his eyes. “What’s that?”
“Where is she? The girl?”
“I don’t know what you mean–”
“Eleanor Bale. Where is she?”
“Who wants her?”
The face shook behind its mask of fog. Nyquist could imagine it was grimacing.
“She must be taken. She will be ours.”
Nyquist had the idea the shadow man was speaking on someone else’s behalf: he was some kind of agent sent here on one purpose.
He kept his voice steady: “Show yourself.”
The figure stepped forward and made a mistake; he moved into a powerful, focused beam of light. He trembled, suddenly distressed. Wisps of fog slipped away from the body.
“What’s wrong? Don’t you like the idea of light, of heat?”
The figure shook with fear. “I don’t want to hurt you. Just tell me where the girl is hidden. She belongs! She belongs to us.”
Nyquist realised: this man was connected in some way with Dusk. “You’re a long way from home. You poor bastard.”
This triggered something in the shadow man, a bare nerve. He moved swiftly and silently in anger, gliding across the concrete. He was upon Nyquist without warning, without mercy. The darkened figure towered over him. Whatever orders he might’ve been given were now cast aside. The hands of smoke circled around Nyquist’s neck and took hold. They closed tight, pressing against the larynx. He coughed and spluttered. His mouth struggled open. His assailant’s hands opened as well, just slightly, enough to let the smoke enter. It seeped in. Nyquist could feel it in his throat, his lungs. It moved like a snake through his chest. He was choking.
His back was up against his car, there was nowhere else to go. His arms came up blindly to push against his assailant; they pressed on cloth, and muscle beneath that was unyielding. It was useless. No breath. No breath! None. His eyes were filled with haze, with flashes of red light.
The last few gasps of air.
Soon, soon, it will be over…
He welcomed it. And that thought, that moment of surrender: it disgusted him. It gave him strength. His own disgust. He fought back. He jammed the heel of his shoe against the car’s bodywork and pushed with all his might. The figure was taken by surprise. They tumbled forward together and fell to the ground, where Nyquist was once more easily overpowered. The man pinned him down, grabbed him by the hair and bashed the back of his head against the gravel. He was blacking out. He swung wildly with his right hand and hit at the hidden face and he felt the contact of his bunched fist on softer flesh. In desperation he reached up and tore at the cloth mask with its garlands of mist; he dug his nails in and pulled the mask loose. His attacker’s face was exposed, and the rest of the mist dissipated from his clothing like a ghost escaping flesh. Nyquist pushed the man away. He scrambled to his feet and stepped back so the harsh rays of light fell directly on the prone figure. Immediately the man tried to escape the glare. He was in agony.
Nyquist let him suffer.
A pale face, washed-out eyes, a shaved skull. He shook his head from side to side and started to shriek.
Nyquist stood over him, offering a little shade. “Who are you? What do you want from Eleanor?” He bent closer, grabbing the attacker by the lapels. “Tell me.” He was about to apply more pressure when another darkness closed in from the side, another agent.
Time slowed down.
Mist curled around Nyquist’s face and head.
And in the mist, a voice.
It whispered close and he was back once more at the fogline, twilight was calling to him and he gave in, he couldn’t help himself. All thoughts of daylight vanished.
The voice whispered again.
Quicksilver awaits you.
It was the last thing he heard before the mist covered him completely.
Hanging by a Thread
One of the entranceway’s door panels had been smashed in, probably the result of a brick or some other object thrown in anger. The web of cracks in the glass mirrored the tangle of shining wires above the forecourt of the Ariadne Centre. People came and went. Nyquist had been waiting across the street for some time, his body clock itching with need as he stared at the broken window, wondering about who might have done such an act: drunken hooligan, disgruntled ex-employee, or a protester against the company’s promotion of excessive or dangerous timelines? Perhaps the mother or father of some poor chronostatic victim.
He took a sip from his flask, feeling the delicious burn of cheap blended whisky in his throat. Events had led him here; they would lead him away. Time wrapped itself around him in one thousand binding cords, ever tightening. There was no wiggle room. He felt that he might burst apart at any moment, and he no longer cared. He’d had all good sense beaten out of him. Only the case mattered.
Nyquist checked his watch. Was it really twenty-five past three? If so, which timeline was he on? When had he last made an adjustment? He couldn’t remember, and his fingers ached to grab hold of the winder, to twist and turn and change the time, over and over again.
But then he spotted a lone woman coming out of the doorway. She walked across the street, towards where Nyquist was standing. He stepped out from the bus shelter, startling her a little. “Excuse me,” he said.
“Yes?”
“I was wondering, do you have the right time?”
The woman looked confused. “What do you mean?”
Nyquist guessed she was a senior administrator or a low-level manager of some kind. He nodded over to the centre. “Business Time.”
She looked at him with disdain, at his damaged face, his shoddy suit and his greasy self-cut hair. At the driven look in his eyes.
Nyquist waved his hands about, dismissing his own image. “I know what you’re thinking,” he said. “I’m not executive material. But listen, there’s many different kinds of business. Isn’t that right?”
“I guess so.”
“I’m just trying to make my way in the world, to get back on the right track.”
She looked at her wrist, which held two watches, one next to the other. “Well, let’s see. Inside the centre, it’s ten past six.” She spoke the words as though throwing a coin to a beggar.
“Thank you. Thank you very much!”
The woman hurried away. Nyquist adjusted his wristwatch with a deft but frantic hand. Then he returned to the bus shelter. He’d found a tiny spot of shade where a broken bulb had not yet been replaced. Nyquist’s head fitted the small area of darkness precisely, as though it were made for him especially by a bespoke shadow designer. Yet the act made him think of the man who’d attacked him in the cemetery car park, a man who carried his own shadow with him. And the second person who had hit him on the head from behind. Old Delamonte had seen all this from Kinkaid’s graveside, and had coming running up to help. By the time he got there, the two assailants had left in the vehicle with the blacked-out windows. Delamonte described this second figure. “Just a shadow. Only a shadow.”
Nyquist reached up to touch the tender bruise on the back of his head. It felt
like a crowbar had been used, or some such.
Well then: one more wound to add to the list.
But it was the second attacker’s final words that he remembered most, the man leaning down to whisper in his ear as he slipped into unconsciousness.
Quicksilver awaits you.
It sent shivers through him, even now as the minutes ticked by, as people walked by, living their gilded lives in this well-to-do area of the city, unaware of the darker forces that gathered.
He kept his attention on the Ariadne Centre. More and more people were coming out, others arriving in groups; a shift had ended. Half past six. End of the day for one half of the work force; the beginning for another set of workers. The ones leaving were all adjusting their wristwatches to personal time zones, just as the arriving workers synchronised themselves to the collective office time. This was the real advantage of Dayzone: work never stopped. The profits soared far and above other cities around the country. And sure enough, about ten minutes later Patrick Bale strode out of the building. He was accompanied by Pearce, whose role seemed to hover something between personal assistant, second-in-command and female bodyguard. They turned down a narrow side street. Nyquist followed them. A private car park was situated around the corner, where a chauffeur was already opening the door of a highly polished limousine. The surrounding lamps were reflected in the paintwork, their many colours blurring together, transforming the entire vehicle into an abstract picture show.
Nyquist approached. “Mr Bale!”
Pearce made a threatening gesture but Nyquist shouted, “It’s about Eleanor.”
This simple statement caused Pearce to hesitate.
Bale came forward, his voice cold, emotionless: “All that business is done, Nyquist, as you know.”
“Is it?”
“Certainly. I believe you have received payment already?”
Behind the cool, expensively modelled exterior, Nyquist could sense the pressure this man was under. His skin was mottled with red and his eyes were slightly off focus.
He asked, “Have you been in a fight?”
Nyquist ignored the question. “I need to speak with Eleanor. She’s in danger.”
“How do you mean?”
“I’m not sure. I can’t say as yet, not precisely. I was attacked…”
Bale squinted at him. “Really?”
“I don’t know who they are, or what their goal is. But they’re looking for Eleanor. That’s a fact.”
“I really don’t understand.”
He didn’t dare mention the Quicksilver threat. Instead he said simply, “They’re going to harm your daughter. And they might well… they might come after you, in order to find her. Or your wife. They’re desperate.”
Bale shook his head in response. His eyes blinked as sweat dripped into them. He looked furious. “Thank you for your services, Mr Nyquist. But my poor little girl has been through enough already. Now, I have a train to catch.” He turned to the car, indicating for Pearce and the chauffeur to get ready to leave.
“Are you her real father?”
Bale stopped dead. His body shook for a moment.
Pearce stepped forward. “Are you all right, Mr Bale?”
Her boss gestured angrily at her to back off. “Keep away from me!”
She moved off to stand next to the chauffeur. And only when they were safely out of hearing, did Bale speak. His voice was hushed, tight, filled with disbelief.
“What in Apollo’s name are you talking about?”
“Eleanor claims that another man is her father. The dead man. Kinkaid.”
Bale moved quickly. He grabbed Nyquist by the arm, pulling him even further from the car. “That… that girl!”
Nyquist kept his cool. “Yes?”
“She does not respect me. I’ve given her everything. Everything!”
“Have you?”
“I’m warning you, Nyquist. Don’t mess with me.”
The two men faced each other, until finally Bale pushed Nyquist away.
Nyquist shouted, “Look after her, Bale. Don’t let her get hurt!”
The chief executive ignored him. He walked over to the limousine where he spoke to Pearce in a low voice. His assistant nodded before shooting a glance of pure hatred over at Nyquist. Then she followed her boss into the back of the vehicle and the doors closed.
Nyquist tipped his flask until the last dregs of alcohol soothed his tongue.
The limousine drove away, a silver chariot under the lamplight. It seemed to vanish amid the haze, as though swallowed up by a mirage.
Damn it. He needed a drink, a proper one.
Something to make him forget.
Or rather, to remember. Because always at the edge of his vision, those lost moments in the twilit room hovered… just out of reach.
Mister Tick-Tock is Dancing
He sought oblivion in No Sleep precinct, the entertainment sector. In these streets a constant parade of dancers, singers and musicians plied their trade for both tourists and long-term residents. This flashing neon jungle excited the revelling tribes beyond measure. Granted, the more chronologically challenged were left with serious clocklag, but it was all worth it for the joy of a sleepless, overheated adventure. And then it was back to the quieter, more sedate precincts of Dayzone, or the servitude of a single time stream somewhere outside the city.
But Nyquist didn’t want to return anywhere, only to keep moving forward. He pushed his way along the crowded boulevard.
Animated chatter mixed in with music streaming out of club doorways, while street singers caressed the ears with hot jazz rhythms. Circuits crackled in the power surges and brightness flared from lamps on the edge of burnout above the radiant streets, above the blazing stores and the fiery windows, amid the glow and the gleam of daylife. Neon gods and goddesses were hanging from the hoardings, all dazzle and golden hair. These deities of light were clutching tantalizing products in filamented fingers, while down below, far below, a raconteur stood on a small makeshift stage reciting a story to the throng of listeners gathered around her. “Once there was a little boy,” she began. “A mere child, his name now lost to us, even though he is well known as the first creator of our beloved city of light.” The crowd responded with excitement. The raconteur held her arms aloft, calling for silence before carrying on with her tale. “One day the child climbed up onto the roof of the apartment block where he lived. He was hoping to see if the sun ever closed its eye. This is how he saw it, the sun was a giant eye that looked down upon the city, keeping the streets alive with its fiery gaze. The boy was just six years old. Six years old, ladies and gentlemen! But such vision! He stood there on the roof, waiting, as his parents worried and searched for him. The child settled down to eat his bread, to drink his water. Many hours went by until a cloud passed over the sun. And he wept bitterly at seeing this. Oh, how the poor boy, our founder, wept. And he promised himself: one day soon, darkness will be forever exiled from this city!” The listeners murmured their approval at the story.
Nyquist hurried on. He was more than halfway to being seriously drunk and so it was uncomfortable being in such a crowd. A circle of light seemed to be following him wherever he moved. Looking upwards, squinting his eyes, he located a theatrical spotlight fixed to a second floor balcony. Somebody, a half seen figure, was working the spot, keeping it on Nyquist even as he dodged through the crowd. This was a common pursuit in these parts, but why was he being singled out? He turned onto a side street to escape its attention, only to run into a circle of people gathered around a musician. With a start he realised it was the blind fiddle player he’d seen in Burn Out precinct. The old man was playing the same melody as before, but speeded up now, even more frantic. The notes rang in Nyquist’s skull like a mantra. The listeners pressed in on him from all sides. There was no way through, and no way back. And then a vision materialised in front of him, two words shimmering, words that meant something. He forced his eyes to focus: Noonday Underground. It was a dayclub, with
a human face of bright neon flames dancing above the doorway. He managed to make his way to the entrance. The doorman gave Nyquist the once over and then let him through without any trouble. Obviously, a place without taste or care.
It was a cellar dive, the walls damp and the dancers’ bodies dripping with sweat. The music was all loud, ragged, broken beats and high-pitched wailing. Electrical fire elements glowed red and yellow from the walls. Gas jets shot upwards from funnels, each singular burn in time with the music’s rhythm. Nyquist could only liken it to being trapped, willingly, inside an oven. He felt out of place. The more serious clientele wore smart clothing in the Neo-Modernist style, incorporating swirling patterns and mismatched colours. Others wore very little. These were the young at play in the heat of the day.
The Noonday Underground. He’d seen the name on the postcard in Eleanor’s bag. Was this place a frequent haunt of hers?
Nyquist took a seat at the bar and ordered a whisky, and downed it in one. He saw himself in a mirror, a desperate individual, completely alone, no matter how crowded the club was. There was a space around him, an emptiness. His reflection mocked him. The barman refilled his glass without a word. This time he savoured it. He turned to watch the dancers making their moves. Half naked bodies pulsed and whirled, emitting dots and flecks of iridescent colour as the lightshow bathed them in ever-changing patterns. And through all this chaos and noise Nyquist spotted a clock on the wall. But he couldn’t tell the time by it: the hands blurred on the dial. It must be the sweat in his eyes. He stood up, setting off across the dance floor. The dancers melted around him, pure movement, colour, body heat. The clock moved closer, away, closer. It was ten minutes to twelve. No. A quarter past two. It was no good: time flowed away from him like water seeping through the closed fingers of a dying man in the desert.
Nyquist finished his second drink in one gulp. Moving further into the club, he passed from this room to another. Quieter music played here. People were sitting or lying around in cushioned alcoves. He was drawn to the sight of two teenage girls sharing something between them. It sparkled in a see-through container. One of the girls passed the object under the nose of the other, who swooned in response, her eyes closing in pleasure. Nyquist wandered over. “What’s happening here?” he asked.
